


Dramatic Placing

by quietrook



Category: Psych
Genre: Episode: s01e05 9 lives, M/M, Masturbation, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietrook/pseuds/quietrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn Spencer was not a psychic; what he was was a fake, a phony, a fraud, and, above all -- a tease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dramatic Placing

Shawn Spencer was not a psychic.

Everyone else might have been fooled, but Lassiter could tell the kid was bluffing his perky little ass off, and doing a bang up job of it, too. No, Spencer wasn’t a psychic; what he was was a fake, a phony, a fraud, and, above all -- a tease.

Lassiter’s office was right across the way from the Chief’s, so he could, at any given moment, see what was going on (if he were so inclined). Normally, of course, he wouldn’t dream of spying on the Chief, and had no intention of doing so at that moment, either. He just happened to glance up from some very important paperwork to catch a glimpse of Shawn Spencer shaking his ass in the window of the Chief’s office. Lassiter felt a jumble of emotions. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to shove Spencer against a wall or give him a lengthy lecture about ethics in the workplace (or both). That sort of indecision was an everyday experience for him, though; he chose anger as always and went from there, storming across the hall.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. The Chief motioned for him to stay quiet, so he fell into one of the chairs, watching with blatant disbelief as Spencer did some bizarre, interpretive dance around the room. Apparently, he was channeling the last suicide victim’s cat. Yeah, right. 

Spencer grabbed a newspaper out of Guster’s shirt pocket and began dancing around Lassiter’s chair, stopping to lean against the back. He dangled the paper in front of the older man’s face provocatively. Lassiter rolled his eyes at the terrible acting that was going on, but unfolded the paper, all the same.

“70% off of storm doors and window panes. Everything must go,” he read off, and frowned. Spencer promptly snatched the paper and turned it around. Lassiter rolled his eyes once more for good measure.

“Struggling actress lands big break in Santa Barbara play. So what?”

Guster started to explain exactly why so what as his partner, the so-called psychic, cane out of his reverie, swung his legs over the side of the chair, and placed himself directly in Lassiter’s lap. Again, Lassiter had to force his mind to decide - one action, or the other. It was getting increasingly difficult to override his emotions, and he was hoping against all odds that Spencer couldn’t tell how hard he was; one quick glance from the kid, though, and he knew his battleship was sunk.

“Now, you need to stop waiting around for another suicide, and start looking for a serial killer,” Spencer was saying.

“Spencer,” Lassiter said tightly, “get off of my lap.”

There seemed to be an infinite pause between his words and the kid actually moving; finally, Spencer slid off, but not without one filthy wink.

Lassiter was a little more relieved than usual to storm out of the room; being around that idiot (that gorgeous, awful idiot) was always a hassle, but it seemed that lately Spencer was determined to make it as hard as he possibly could. (No pun intended.) The worst part of it all was that Spencer knew exactly what buttons to push (sitting on him? that was unbelievable). Back in his office, he closed the blinds and locked the door. He needed a little… alone time, and he knew from past experiences that the restroom was not a good place for that.

He settled into his chair, facing the wall, and slid back for a moment, focusing. The image of Shawn Spencer was fixed in his mind; the dancing, the lap sitting, the thought of Spencer kneeling on the floor in front of him… as embarrassing as it was, Spencer was always the place his mind went at times like these. Everything about that lying lunatic just drove him crazy in all the right ways. With that in mind, Lassiter unbuckled his pants and slowly slid a hand into his briefs. There was already a sticky sheen of precum built up, and he sighed as he formed a grip around his erection - and then he was stroking, moving his hand up and down in a regular motion, a perfect rhythm. He allowed himself to make no noise, to control himself perfectly; he wanted nothing to come between him and this sensation.

And then there was a knock at the door. Lassiter froze, hand in his pants, and wondered if they would just go away when he didn’t respond. After a few tense, silent (except for the knocking) minutes, it seemed that whoever it was had simply given up, assumed he was out. He waited a few more just to be sure before he began pumping himself again. He had only just started to speed up, to bite his lower lip, when he heard another sound -- the clicking noises that accompanied someone trying to pick the lock. He swiveled and slid in close to his desk just in time for the door to open.

**Author's Note:**

> comments, critique, if you loved or hated it -- all would be appreciated. thanks.  
> more to follow!  
> <3


End file.
